While I was still a very wet-behind-the-ears noob of travel, I had the advantage of travelling with close friends for the initial 7 weeks of my journey. Long term travel can be daunting, especially so if you find yourself alone at 3am in Portugal with no cell phone and only a drunk old man to sleep with (please see my Lisbon story for the, ah, interesting details).
Having a friend you trust to split the metaphorical load is so very comforting, and after my wonderful Christmas experience in England, I was traveling with the wonderful Miss Fran (who was, unbeknownst to her, the initial catalyst for this travel in the first place) to Austria with the intention of meeting up with my Kiwi friends who were 2 weeks into a European tiki-tour.
We flew into the teensy town of Innsbruck, my mouth agape at the spectacular views as we skimmed snow capped mountain tops to land. I now consider myself a seasoned traveller, and the longer you travel (and the more you see) the less you get those absolutely gobsmacked moments when you experience a new sight. My first glimpse of Austria, however, was one of those moments, and even getting off the plane I couldn’t resist spinning in circles (much to the disapproving glares of the very straight-laced Austrian airpot security) and taking a few pics of the airport, which in my opinion must have been the most beautiful airport in the world.
Having carefully shoved my bulging eyes back into my skull, I walked slightly guiltily towards the check in, realising that all of the stereotypes about Austrians being compulsive rule followers may have been more accurate than I have them credit for.
My friend Frances thought this was marvellous though- being a Brighton she had travelled to various European countries before and so of course all of this was old hat for her, but to see the joy of new experience on others faces can often let you experience it yourself again too. She enjoyed pointing out a few interesting differences between what I might see in NZ and what Innsbruck had instead.
We cleared the airport and got safely stowed in a youth hostel-style accomodation on the outskirts of town (I ironically felt far too old to be here- irony as for the next 4 years, places like these would become my primary home, feeling more like where I should be than anywhere else ever had).
Then it was time for a wander, and bundled up in my thin down jacket, rain jacket on top and Warehouse gloves (I still have these, they are tougher than those bits of porridge that get stuck to the bowl after a round through the dishwasher) and a ludicrously inadequate beanie stuck to my head. Even the cold was a new experience, having grown up in Auckland I knew objectively what below freezing must be like, but back home the winter meant wet, humid, grey, and just cold enough to be thoroughly unpleasant. Here though, the cold was crisp, deeper somehow, and I revelled in the new experiences of taking a sharp breath and being keenly aware of every molecule of air in my lungs, loving that the breeze brought slight pinpricks to my cheeks and seemed to sharpen sound. Add to this that the sky was a beautiful blue, and the sun was shining (after a week in England I had missed her so!) and I was in a virtual apoplexy of delight. Just to be clear this is all coming from a man who was trained through experience to hate the cold with every fibre of my being, to fear and loathe it- but here, it was simply a new experience, exciting and playful. Why had I lived in Auckland all of my life?
Strolling through the utterly quaint little town, I would find a new vista to caw over every time we turned a corner- the buildings were brightly coloured, multistories and carried that ineffable European style that spoke of class and substance. Backed by the surrounding mountains, I took 7000 or so pictures that first day, even of the wonderful cobbled streets, which I grew to recognise existed in most European cities- gorgeous, but once you have had a few beers and your eyes aren’t seeing quite as straight as they used to the streets can be a head trip.
But, a steaming cup of coffee down (sitting in an outdoor courtyard watching locals and tourists alike come and go) I realised it was time to gird my loins and show Frances what an impressive physical specimen I was. Odd as this might sound, I was a proud gym-rat, and I had been packing on muscle for the past 2 and a half years in an effort to improve my health and of course, impress the ladies (dear lord was I naive). Frances was a polo player and worked longer hours than anyone I had ever met (whether she was dying of whooping cough or not), but was fiercely independent as well and we had jokingly compared our respective fitness levels against one another without having a chance to really put them to the test.
Now being a woke and respectful young male, I had never denigrated her clearly and woefully misguided beliefs that she could ever compare to the magnificence that was my physical ability, but I did long to prove it to her. So, lending her some sports shoes (which were woefully inadequate for the slippery slope) and donning our backpack of supplies, we sniffed disdainfully at the 30 euro cost to ride the gondola (the Nordkettenbahnen) up the mountain, and instead attacked the path ourselves, a pitiful 2,334m climb for a day hike.
Now unfortunately, hubris is often only espied after the fact, that cruel bitch hindsight holding it in secret so you really get egg on your face. I was about to discover that pushing big weights on the bench had in no way prepared me for a prolonged hike up a freezing mountain at altitudes I had never even experienced.
But with limitless (and unfounded) confidence we struck ahead, Frances bouncing along enjoying the stroll while I began to desperately drag in each breath and pretend (after an hour of so of steep switchbacks) that it would be far more comfortable to simply amputate my burning legs than to endure any more of this pain.
Looking back, the hike would have been an enjoyable stroll at my current fitness levels, but this is 5 years of hard slogging and a good number of kilos of muscle dropped, so it is really no wonder I was such a sad puppy dragging my bum up that mountain.
Nonetheless, I am nothing if not stubborn, and so, gasping freezing air down into my asthmatic lungs (elevation is a bitch for asthmatics btw, no fun at all) I continued to push one foot after another in an endless paroxysm of pain. During all of this, I frequently swore to Fran that no, I didn’t need her help with the back pack and no, despite all appearances (and the obvious truth) I wasn’t cramping in both quads, I just liked to walk all funny like that when it was cold.
Fortunately, my journey was not only misery and pain but also moments of pure beauty, as now and again I would lift my eyes, shaking off the sweat that had formed on my brow, to see the stunning views that surrounded me, and just once- a hurried flash of red in the pines surrounding us. I, as you no doubt have realised, am an animal person- when I see something cute and fluffy I have the completely involuntary reaction of calling out with girlish glee “hello gorgeous!” and then rushing forward for a cuddle. This has got me into innumerable awkward situations when I do just that and the owner of the dog or cat or whatever it is I am rushing towards believes I am reaching out to give them a tickle. I have yet to see a restraining order but I fear it may be inevitable… Anyway, the flash of red was my first ever view of a red squirrel- teeny tiny little body scrambling about the trees with the manic energy of a two year old hopped up on food colouring and several bumps of cocaine.
His tufted ears twitched comically and I could barely concentrate enough to snatch a picture of him. All of it- the trees, the flowers, the surrounding mountains- all of this was a source of wonder to me, and tortured muscles and gasping breath aside, I had an amazing time.
Finally, and with much exaggerated fanfare, we crested the final rise to the top, and as summits so often do, the true views we hoped to see had been mostly obscured until this final moment. The view (and the altitude and freezing wind) completely took my breath away, and we spent a good while exploring the summit and the traditional cross that had been erected to mark it.
I remember the cold and the lack of preparation had left me with a fiery appetite, and as all such mountains in Europe inevitably seemed to have, there was a brauhause (essentially a beer hall) onto of the mountain. The prices were exorbitant but the food was hot and salty and that was all it took to pass the Gareth test. My eyes were larger than my stomach though, and having eaten very little on the way up I could barely stomach more than a few mouthfuls of the 3 dishes I had bought. Fortunately, the food was remarkably awful, and so I did not feel my usual regret at wasted food as I tipped out most of a chicken noodle soup, a few soggy dumplings, and a dry hunk of bread that you could have used to lever a nail out of your car tyre.
We wandered back eventually, flushed with success but quite late (due to me dragging the chain on the way up) and so had to hustle a wee bit on the way back. Having cramping legs, a half filled belly and heavy pack on my back, I have blocked out most of these memories, but I do remember slipping and sliding on the wet, white stone and the frustrated look on miss Fran’s face that we might get caught out in the dark on the mountain side.
Nonetheless, we did arrive safely (if a little sorely) back at our accomodations, and I assured Frances that the heavy pack and boots had definitely slowed me down, holding back that massive reserve of fitness and strength that I had in reserve… I like to think she humoured me.
The next day, however, was to be New Years proper, and that meant reuniting with my friends, who I had not seen in several weeks. The way I judge the quality of a relationship is that whether you have been apart for a week or a year, nothing has changed in the dynamic you share. Life events, circumstances, locations- all of these can change, but what you mean to one another never shifts one iota- that is the kind of relationship I have with my closest friends.
Needless to say I was excited to see them, and Frances perhaps even more so, as she had left NZ a few years previously and had seen none of us at all in that time. We had drawn close in NZ and Frances was officially part of the “Macpac clique”, a foolish wee moniker we gave ourselves when we realised we all possessed at least 1 item from the store and, well, we may have been drunk at the time.
Anyway, the Macpac clique was meeting again, on New Years no less, in a picturesque town in Austria- a recipe for a brilliant evening I knew, and if our previous New Years’ were anything to go by, also a potential for a vast amount of trouble. I couldn’t wait.
Frances and I were both excited, and as evening drew near, we went to visit a Bier Halle to have a few Austrian beverages that were guaranteed to be cheaper than whatever we could find that evening. There was an outdoor party planned- live music, lights, and of course the most essential ingredient- alcohol. While I was nervous about spending most of the night outside in the freezing cold (it would be the first dance party I went to while wearing my down jacket and thermal underwear) enough beers tended to at least help you forget how cold you might be feeling, if not remove the cold itself.
Therefore, with a cheerful buzz going on, we wandered into the chaos of noise and lights, to a prearranged spot to meet up. The party had been sponsored by Swarofski, which had donated a huge, crystal studded Christmas tree to add to the elite vibe of the European scene.
The crew were all there- boozed up well already, so there were hugs and smiles and inarticulate expressions of love all around. I did notice though that the crew looked a little rough- sniffles, red eyes, that look that says one isn’t feeling a hundred percent. I was curious about this until they started telling me about their experiences.
Kontiki bus tours were, from their accounts, a rage-filled beer fest that involved smashing a night in a country’s big city, like Paris or Berlin, getting hammered beyond sensibility and accidentally puking in taxis (and getting charged a 600 euro clean up fee), dragging oneself from the crappy hostel they have holed you up in that night (so pissed that at this point is could be a bed made purely of cactus and chilli powder and you wouldn’t mind) to then haul yourself back up the next morning to the bus for the 6am start, to convalesce for the next 7 or so hours on the drive to the next city so that by the time you arrive you are ready to start the process all again. This might sound like hyperbole, but I can assure you it isn’t- they looked as if they had just been through that particular spin cycle on repeat for the last 2 weeks, and had seen associated horrors that even the black-outs couldn’t fully erase.
The group expanded to include a few people from the tour they were on, and they were the respectable reprobates you would anticipate would revel in a booze-cruise like this. Add in that within my friend group we had a pastor, a pastors wife, 2 pastors daughters and Andrew (you’ve heard of him before) and you might understand why this would impact them even more than the average mid-20er, but I was proud of their fortitude- I would have done one of these nights and needed a week or so to recover.
Nonetheless, they had seen amazing sights (at night) and the bus had a fun culture that only marginally crossed the borders into sexual predator territory. Mr Han, for example, was a 5 foot nothing Chinese man that was obsessing over anything vaguely resembling female- immediately setting off my overly protective side, so I took an immediate dislike to him lest he turn that libido in the unwanted direction of any of my friends. He had evidently tried and been spurned before though, so he was not a concern I had to worry about. There were a few ladies, however, that (thankfully) took a look at Frances and assumed we were together and left me alone, because I feel that I may have had the job of gently spurning their clearly ungentle advances on anything vaguely resembling a not-completely-destroyed male. I like to think they left with wistful looks on their faces.
One notable exception to our group was the aforementioned Andrew. One of my best friends on the planet- someone who has been there with me through it all, and someone Frances had very much wanted to see as well- just wasn’t there.
Now usually this would mean he was at the bar buying drinks, or had been kicked out for some unruly behaviour and we would need to wait the statutory 5 minutes for him to sneak back in. While not appearing particularly athletic, when there was booze involved he’d always surprise you- I’d seen him leap 5 foot high fences- again, no hyperbole- just to get himself back into the party. This time however, he didn’t come.
Digging deeper, it transpired that he had met a random bunch of Polish dudes and decided they would be his drinking buddies for the pre-game to New Years. Now I have had some small experience with Poles (having had a tiny 90-something Babcia surely and soundly drink me under the table with straight vodka at a Polish wedding) so I knew how dangerously this might have gone. I genuinely worried he was in a ditch somewhere, soundly drunk and at risk of freezing to death. After a moment though I remembered that this was Andrew- the man I was convinced would get me stabbed one day, yet had an almost supernatural ability to avoid serious harm when he almost certainly deserved it. He was the one who would wander off, 8 or so Long Island Ice Teas down, into the heart of some of the dodgiest parts of Bangkok, with a loud mouth and and obvious western wealth, to turn up happy and healthy at break of dawn next morning none the worse for wear. If I’d tried something like this I would have woken up in a bath of ice with a kidney missing.
Therefore, I was sure he was fine, but I did need to convince my friends about this, especially since he wasn’t answering any of our calls.
Frances was worried, of course, but also annoyed that she wouldn’t get to see Andrew, who she had a good friendship with and was a core part of the MacPac clique, and we needed him with us for it to feel whole again. After casting a few vaguely racist comments about the drinking habits of the Polish (like she could cast stones), she settled into the inevitability of Andrew’s whereabouts being a mystery and started to encourage us to get on with having a good time- which meant step 1- getting more beer.
The Europeans fortunately have as passionate a relationship with beer as I do, and are well suited to serving the multitudes for any and all of your dipso-maniacle needs. Loaded with 5 beers I wandered (bumped awkwardly agains semi- and very intoxicated dancers trying not to spill to much onto them), winding over the snowy ground as the heavy bass reverberated through my skull, very pleasantly excited to see where the evening took us.
Having received adoring looks for having requisitioned our essentials, we began the very serious task of dancing and drinking.
I have never enjoyed rave-style environments- I am very deaf when there is any kind of background noise around, so hearing from anyone trying to communicate with me is just a lost cause. Which makes me feel on the back foot, to say the least, and then my over protective nature steps up, and I find it difficult to relax while trying to give the evil eye to anyone taking overly long looks at the backsides of my female compatriots, and occasionally stepping in physically when necessary.
I have always been over protective, it stems from being a teacher I think, or maybe even more ingrained than that, having been getting into scraps to defend my less aggressive friends at primary school from bullies and having suffered merciless bullying myself for a number of years I developed a strong hatred of anyone trying to push their unwanted agenda on anyone.
I do like to say that I can normally find a good balance despite this slightly neurotic trait, not rushing to anger or physicality, but assessing, taking less confrontational ways of dealing with the situation. Interestingly, I have always admired Aaron (the pastor of our group), who is of a different disposition- less considered and cautious, he rushes into action immediately. While this can be inflammatory in the wrong circumstances, it also means he will be there to help while I sit back and try to figure out the best means of approach.
It was a mix of these two particular personality types that got me into yet another situation where I was quite convinced I would end up stabbed. Again. If it helps, I’ve been stabbed twice already, in unrelated circumstances.
This part of the evening unfortunately begins with xenophobia, and the causes behind it. Refugees- primarily young men from Syria or other war torn countries, fled to Europe to escape forced conscription or to avoid persecution. Many European counters graciously opened their arms and borders to these people, but the ramifications of the act were still being assessed when large numbers began to pour into these westernised countries. Unfortunately, these young men had often had no training in social etiquette, particularly in their interactions with the fairer sex. Not only did this cause friction, it often provided justification for dangerously nationalist views.
Anyway, political commentary aside, it was just one such man that was being less than polite with his attentions to the girls around him. Then he started towards our group. Seeing a potential situation, I made to head him off, intending to gently redirect his attention elsewhere, but before I got the chance to, Aaron had already planted himself firmly in the mans way, having seen the guys pointed leers and grabby hands, and told him in a distinctly un-pastoral way to leave the girls alone.
Aaron, quick to action but not necessarily the most rational, had lit a fire in this mans eyes and I saw a spark of wounded pride begin to burn. Aaron, totally unaware, having done his duty turned back around to carry on enjoying the festivities.
With a look of dark murder on his face, the man, who was around my size (so not exactly physically intimidating but for all I knew kept a handy dandy butterfly knife in his jeans) started pushing roughly through the crowd to get to Aaron.
Running through the various expletives I was comfortable using in my mind (I had a VERY conservative upbringing) my protective side couldn’t be denied and I stepped up to intercept him, not aggressively, as that would be just inflammatory, but with a smile on my face I tried in simple English (sounds racist but it’s a safe bet in Europe, trust me) to let him know my friend meant no offence and must have confused him with someone else.
He looked me up and down in a ‘I’m gonna staunch you out’ kind of way (and I pictured myself being stabbed several times) and when I didn’t back off, nodded slightly and changed direction.
I thought ‘huh, that was easy, and feeling that was a job well done and not wishing to push my luck, I went back to our group and got busy attempting to dance poorly in sub zero temperatures. This was great for about 20 minutes, but then who do I spot in the corner of my eye but a still very upset looking man once again making a bee line for Aaron. Thinking that now I was definitely gonna get stabbed, I once again intercepted him, gentle as always, turned him around, and breathing a thankfully stab-free sigh, I went back to dancing.
Unfortunately, hell hath no fury like an inebriated man who felt he had something to prove, and I found that almost like clockwork, after about 20 minutes my friend would once again turn around and try to sneak back to get his own on Aaron.
I am, rather proudly, quite patient, and though I hate confrontation it probably worked in my favour as this little rigmarole happened maybe 5 or 6 times more.
On the last time however, I saw he had reached the end of his tether, and his mood swiftly changed. Looking ready to explode, he lunged at me in a swift movement, driving his body forward into me. Then, in a movement so rapid I was completely unprepared, he wrapped me up in a big sweaty hug, mumbling some happy compliments in my ear about us now being the best of friends, and smiling and mumbling happily to himself, he finally, finally, wandered back to his mates for the last time, the tension dropping off him like steam running off a sweaty towel in the morning sun.
Finally feeling free to enjoy the evening completely stab-free, I went back to dancing, drinking and yelling happily until the wee hours, all concerns forgotten but swearing I would have a go at Aaron for causing me such a stressful evening of guarding my wee flock of friends. I’ve always thought it was irony that diminutive little me was always the first to jump into alpha protective mode, but it had served it’s purpose tonight and I was suffused with a warm sense of ‘well done’, which was helping to stave off the chilly evening air.
Eventually, well after the uproarious countdown and many hours of dancing and singing, we stumbled drunkenly back to our dorm feeling surprisingly well refreshed and excited for the next stage of our journey. This, I found out, was to be heading to meet up in Prague, a place I had wanted to visit since I had seen a pic of the glorious Charles bridge in a snowstorm- I was very excited for the coming weeks ahead.
My wonderful friends were whisked away in a post-drinking haze early the next morning, and I had a day in Innsbruck and a train ride to catch them up in Prague, firstly saying a very heartfelt and regretful goodbye to the instigator of my Overseas experience, Miss Fran. Before she left, she made me promise to give Andrew an earful about his no-show, and though I knew I would pale in comparison to her apoplectic rage (she was fiercely loyal to her friends, willing to do anything for them even when that meant tearing a strip off of their hide) but I promised to do my best. Fran will always and forever be a wonderful friend of mine, and I have since had the distinct pleasure of attending her wedding and will soon be cooing over her almost-ready-to-pop-out little one. Friends like that never leave, they just do new things to be excited about the next time you see them. Years can pass, and the friendship remains as strong as though no time had passed at all.
Anyway, having had an easy train journey up to Prague (my directional disability makes any form of public transport an impossibly complicated rigmarole) I found myself wandering up the cobbled streets of Prague excited to see my friends once more- this time with a definite promise of appearance by Andrew.
Thanking my lucky stars I had friends who had slightly higher taste in accomodation than I did (if it had 3 walls, a roof and wasn’t at imminent risk of falling down or infecting me with plague, it generally passed the Gareth test). With growing excitement I headed up winding, rising streets towards- thank God Almighty- the Hilton. Aaron had managed to score an upgrade to the free bar and with not so much as an evaluating glare I wandered into the hotel for free drinks and a couple of very tasty cigars. This in itself was a minor miracle, because though Sarah- through unyielding perseverance- has managed to install in me a desire to dress up a step above my favoured hobo-chic look, at this point in my life I was in desperate need of a fashion coach. I was content to throw on scrubby jeans, a giant ratty blue puffer jacket and squeeze a raincoat and fingerless hobo gloves over the top of it all to head out into polite company. I definitely paled in comparison to the very classy style that pervades European culture and would have stood out like whippets to the Hilton staff had they seen me. Fortunately I wandered in with nary a care.
We sat in the swanky lounge, free bottomless beers, nibbles and good fat cigars making a very comfortable alternative to the freezing cold outside. Talk was easy and I revelled in the company of my best friends, banter flying freely. This was until someone mentioned the boys were looking a little scruffy after their weeks on the road. Haircuts were not prioritised, and any of the less important human ablutions tend to be thrown to the wayside when travel gets exciting. We cycled through various disasters that we experienced at the hands of stylists, and eventually I mentioned the fact I had cut my own hair for a few years there.
With the alcohol rising and good judgement concordantly lowering, we decided that now would be a great time to try it out ourselves. Aaron and Andrew, flushed with excitement, ran down to Aarons room and the clippers were drawn out. Leaning over the bathtub, Andrew decided he was a virtuoso with hair, and launched himself willy nilly at Aarons hair. A good 15 minutes of chopping, oiling, and chopping again, we had Aaron doing a fair impression of Friar Tuk.
His wife, Jess, chose this moment to walk in and the look of horror on her face was all we needed to be assured of the remarkable job we had done.
She began to lay into him, all of us really, at being so foolish as to believe this would be a good idea (she may have had a point) so I made the courages decision to wrest the clippers away and have a go myself (very sadly I was the most experienced in cutting hair, and I like to think the least drunk of us) and began to try to fade things out a little. Aaron on the other hand, was keen on keeping the Friar Tuk, as it bore a passing resemblance to the peaky blinders style.
Jess was having none of this however, and ensured that I spent a good 15 minutes trying to even things out a wee bit. It worked marginally well, and with that success Aaron and I turned to Andrew, whose idea this had all been in the first place. Seeing the miraculous results on Aaron’s head, Andrew immediately backed out (his sense of style is not to be trifled with) so it was a bit of a disappointed, but slightly lighter and more sober group that ended the night as we all toddled off to bed. I wandered back alone through the blisteringly cold streets to get back to my air BNB, staring at the gorgeous old buildings and occasional pieces of street art, such as a man hanging by one hand from a pipe 30 feet above the street, which gave me a hell of a fright the first time I saw it.
The next day we had a castle trip planned, actually a repeat of what they had done on the tour, so I was looking forward to getting the inside take. We wandered across Charles bridge - a must for anyone visiting, though when I first experienced it, it was at night, in the snow, and was absolutely stunning as I wandered across alone. Now, it was packed with Asian tourists and vendors, and pushing through the crowds we enjoyed the wine glass symphonies of buskers and picked up a few magnets for the girls’ collections.
Looming over the bridge, over all of Prague, is the dark voluminous silhouette of the Prazský Hrad, or Prague Castle. This looks aggressive and oppressive- a real dark ages monolith- but within and around lay a few secrets to be uncovered.
With a mischievous glint in their eyes, I was informed there were secret tunnels under the castle used by the former monks who, unsurprisingly, brewed various beers to supplement their work. We uncovered the tunnel- almost small enough to set off my claustrophobia. Rough hewn stone walls, where even I had to crouch, led to what can only be described as a red lit boudoir-style bar. Here they brew Blueberry beer- a reddish concoction that tastes subtly sweet and kicks like a mule. I think once more, having returned to try the beer once again, it was the combination of the experience, the winter and my friends presence that added to that taste, as it has never been quite as delicious when I went back to try it. The little markets surrounding the castle are amazing too with all sorts of wonders and fun activities to get up to- I managed to shoot a bullseye with a crossbow- boys will be boys.
I also highly recommend hitting a Goulash place while you are in Prague- the heavy, meaty taste counterpoints the beer and climate of Czech to perfection. Wonderful comfort food to warm you on a stark, brisk day in the capitol.
After a wonderful time with my friends, I still had an extra day, so I decided to spend it touristing my heart out and visit the bone temple. This is a Roman chapel called Sedlec Ossuary and is a short train ride out of the city. The story behind this very morbid scene is basically sacred dirt. Yep, apparently a visit to the Holy Land was often accompanied by some blessed souvenirs, so an enterprising monk grabbed some dirt to sprinkle on the cemetery ground while he was on his pilgrimage to Rome, making this the place to be to be buried. When people started stacking up to be buried (literally, as there were no more plots) the monks began to exhume bodies to make space and therefore more money from selling the spaces. So what else is there to do with huge numbers of dead bodies but to clean the bones and construct an intricate sculpture consisting of more than 40,000 human skeletons.
In a surprisingly small space, our perky guide explained the histories and the amazing artistic beauty of the sculptures, which has drawn the admiration of artists across the globe. They cover every surface, including several pyramids of skulls that dominate the central space.
We shot through a small mining town as well, learning the fantastic stories of the miners and how the crushing doldrum of the work drove the miners to the plentiful and rather scandalous ale houses that were nearby- the art and rich culture was amazing, and pretty tragic to consider how rough life was at that point.
I made numerous trips back to Prague in the successive years- my place in Germany was a couple hours train ride away, meaning boys booze trips were plentiful. I definitely recommend a trip there, and I definitely feel braving the winter to avoid the crowds and see the river encased in ice is the best choice. Travel brings so many unexpected, rich experiences with it, and if you can do that with your best friends, it will be unforgettable- so here’s to many more adventures, even in this post COVID world.
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